Divergence
by LittlePsychoWolf
Summary: AU delving into one of the universes from the TNG episode "Parallels," where the Cardassian Occupation never happened, as seen through the eyes of my Star Trek Online character. Really just alternate-historical musings from a Niner with a bit of a Cardassian fixation.
1. Prologue and Part One

**Disclaimer: **Star Trek in all its many iterations, including the continued timeline of Star Trek Online, is property of CBS Paramount and the late Gene Roddenberry. I only have claim to my original ideas and characters set in that universe, although I'm not sure about the custody case of adopting and naming a character shown for less than a minute on screen with no speaking part.

Thanks to the good people at for providing a transcript of the TNG episode "Parallels," and the Memory-Alpha, Memory-Beta, and Star Trek Online wikis for all other information. Star Trek Online was created by Cryptic Studios, and it's not their fault that I can't disengage my imagination from MMORPGs. I also used some various unofficial resources on the Bajoran language.

Much thanks to Rilwen Shadowflame for betaing.

* * *

**Divergence**

_Prologue: 2370_

You couldn't feel a subspace differential pulse. It was rather the point, in the same way that a man standing on the Golden Gate Bridge couldn't feel the movement of the Pacific.

At the moment, though, that memory (an Earth sunset painted above all that deep blue, the soft overhead _whoosh _of shuttlecraft in the strange cool air, bound for somewhere in the maze of lights beyond) was the farthest thing from Tavor's mind. There wouldn't have been room for it in any case, not with the warship on the viewscreen. _Ornathia_-class. The shape of it drawing closer thrust aside his rational self and forced on him the fear of the prey animal who sees a _honge_'s shadow fall on him, cowering in the cold night as the hunter stoops...

"_Shields up!"_

The force of impact nearly threw him from his chair. He willed the console in front of him to keep making sense, to let him do his duty and fly the _Enterprise _to safety -

Another shuddering blow. Blue fire in the starfield, a blinding flare against the black, and the Bajoran ship was lost to sight among a growing armada of -

- _But that's impossible _-

His vision was a blur of lightning flashes as _Enterprise _after _Enterprise _popped into being. The last thing he heard was the android's voice, calm and measured with the lack of fear only a machine could know.

"_The barriers between realities are breaking down. Other realities are emerging into our own."_

Action and reaction, a push and pull of matter as universes twisted around each other - and everything stopped.

* * *

_Part One: 2406_

"My name is Tavor Ajith. I am an ensign on the U.S.S. _Enterprise-D_ under Captain William Thomas Riker. My serial number is-"

"_Will Riker is not the captain of the goddamned _Enterprise!"

"Sir, please-"

"Don't give me 'please!' If he tells me that one more time like it's God's own truth - well, I don't _care _that the spoonheads haven't had a military in twenty years! The _Enterprise-D_ was destroyed in 2371, and the E hadn't got five minutes out of the shipyard before Picard had his ass in the shiny new seat! He's a damn bad spy and that's all it is!"

"Captain, his quantum signature-"

"Did I _ask_ you for any quantum _horseshit, _Lieutenant? I don't care if we're all supposed to give the Cardassians a pat on the head and some milk and cookies after the Dominion gave them a taste of their own medicine during the war - they can't _understand _democracy! Look at the True Way! They'll take the damn Jem'Hadar over us if it means they can have a gun in their hands again!"

The Caitian lieutenant bent over Tavor again and made another pass with his tricorder. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His twitching whiskers brushed the side of Tavor's jaw. "I don't know who or what you are, or how you got in that uniform..." He withdrew and straightened again, saying firmly, "Captain Escarra, by everything you just said, I think your judgement is seriously impaired. He really does seem to believe what he's saying."

"Their fake memory techniques-"

"Were outlawed by the Detapa Council under the terms of the same treaty that disbanded the army, sir."

The captain threw his hands up. "Fine. Do all the scans you want while I find out if Starfleet knows anything. We're already late for the Breshar conference." He turned sharply on his heel and stormed out of the brig, leaving Tavor somewhat in awe that such a small, slight man - a human, at that - could hold such ferocious anger.

The door slid quietly shut behind him. Tavor watched the Caitian tap busily at his tricorder.

"I suppose you want to know what in the Lonely Night the captain was talking about," the lieutenant said eventually. He glanced up, slit-pupilled amber eyes still bright with curiosity. "If these readings _are_ correct, you won't know anything about the Dominion War, will you?"

"No."

"I suppose Cardassians could join Starfleet if they _wanted_ to." Tavor watched the flicking tip of the Caitian's tail, and decided to simply weather the abrupt subject change in silence. "It's just that none of them have. We have ambassadors, liasons, chairmen, more political and scientific advisors than you could shake one of those damned voles at... but no men or women in the Fleet."

"There aren't many where I'm from."

"Really? Why not? Oh - just put that over there, Seshafi, will you? Thanks -"

"Prophets, what's wrong with him?" The woman who had just entered the brig stopped and stared.

"And you," hissed Tavor, flattened back against the wall of his holding cell, "wonder why _I'm _wearing this uniform."

* * *

"I've never seen anything like it, Rhama." Seshafi swirled the last of her synthale around the bottom of her mug. "You would have thought I was the King of the Gorn." She let out a wry little laugh that made her Caitian friend's ears go back a fraction. "A Cardassian, terrified of me? My grandfather used to say they weren't allowed to fear, not even if you shoved a phaser rifle under their jaw and made them watch you pull the trigger..." She ran a finger under her chin. "There's a little hollow there, did you know that? Between the chin ridges. You never go for the neck, it's all dense bone and cartilage and layers of scale, and the nerve centres aren't anything you could get a -"

Rhama was staring at her in utter horror. "This is _Starfleet_," he said shakily. "Not occupied Bajor. And you can't tell me _that_ was part of your medical training."

She reached out and patted his shoulder, then playfully tried to smooth down the bristling fur at his neck. "I know. My parents hated it when _Afah _trotted out the Resistance stories."

"I can see why." Her fellow science officer sighed. "If _my_ grandfather had been around to see J'mpok, he probably would have jumped out of his hospital bed and grabbed the first rifle he could find, nonviolence be damned."

Seshafi nodded. "Almost a hundred and twenty years, and to him they wouldn't be any different from the ones who killed your great-grandfather."

"Just like Ensign Ajith back there and his 'countrymen' at Setlik III." Rhama crooked the first two fingers of each hand at the word, and wrinkled his muzzle a little. "Which, incidentally, I don't think he knows about either."

"Can I see those readings?"

"Sure." Rhama had been continually glancing down at the tricorder for most of their lunch hour, and slid it across the table to her. "I wish there was some way to find out when his universe diverged, short of quizzing him about every historical event after First Contact..."

Seshafi's voice went very quiet. "You probably shouldn't start with the Occupation."

* * *

He was eating when the Bajoran came back. It was emergency rations, nutritious for most species but tasteless for all; Escarra had made a point of not wasting the replicator on him. His stolid chewing morphed into near-choking as he looked up and saw his visitor.

She wasn't armed. That was the first thing he saw. In the few pounding seconds after that, he noticed vaguely that her skin was a slightly darker shade than Escarra's, that her eyes were dark brown and her nose long and gently rounded. All of those little features paled beside the ridges on the bridge of her nose and the intricate piece of metal in her ear.

She was also trying to smile at him. "I brought you something."

"A PADD." Tavor looked warily back up, shoulders still hunched in instinctive defence. "Are you going to read to me?"

The Bajoran took a few steps to the side. "No, but don't worry. I checked the list, and this is good enough not to be classified as a form of torture." Her fingers darted over the interface set into the wall, and the force field of Tavor's cell blinked out of existence.

He wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or reassured when she tucked the PADD under her arm, raised her hands with the palms facing him, and said slowly, "I need to check your vital signs. I'm not going to hurt you, all right?"

Tavor nodded, grimacing a little as he felt his sweaty uniform cling to him with renewed enthusiasm, as it had been doing since the smart fabric had finally given up. Cardassians didn't sweat unless they were sick or under extreme stress; at all other times their bodies had a death grip on every molecule of its water. A rare few individuals could add arousal to the list of hormonal stressors, but all others had to make do, as he currently was, with terror.

He hoped the Bajoran didn't know that.

Right now, she had put the PADD down on the bench next to him and taken out a medical tricorder, still moving as slowly and carefully as though he was a feral riding hound. "It's _The Living Moon of Matar III_," she said, pointing. "Completely ridiculous, but fun."

Tavor shifted restlessly on the smooth, hard bench. "Has your captain contacted Starfleet Headquarters yet?"

She laughed. "Don't ask the petty officer. You'll find out when he storms back in here, I suppose. Hmm. Aside from normal stress responses and Rhama's quantum thing, which this tricorder is blissfully ignoring, you're perfectly healthy."

"I had my physical just a couple of weeks ago from Doctor Ogawa."

"On the _Enterprise-D, _right?" The earring jingled faintly as she shook her head. "I mean, we still get a lot of use out of the _Galaxy-_class, but you should see the _Enterprise-F_. It makes the _Yukawa _here look like a tugboat." She broke off, and frowned. "I'm sorry, I can't - I've never seen anyone look at me like that before."

Tavor's eyes settled resolutely on his boots. "And I've never really talked to a Bajoran before. Not that I have much of a choice at the moment."

"What did we... what did they do?" She was still watching him.

He looked up, slowly, his face completely even. "That depends. What did _we_ do?"


	2. Part Two

_Part Two: 2329_

The fight for Bajor ended at Ornathia. Through the battle named for it, the vast but unassuming plateau in central Lonar Province gained immortality, and an importance far greater than its scant geological or archaelogical contributions. Cardassian forces struggled on afterwards, in their last futile efforts before the death blow, but both sides agreed that Ornathia was the mortal wound.

It had been three years, by this redefinition of time. Three years since Ornathia, and still, they said, the bodies were lying there. The Bajorans had come for their own dead, few as they were, and looked in victorious contempt on the rest. Those who had died at Ornathia would remain there to rot, never truly committed to the earth, never seen by any Cardassian who might tell others that they had died for their people. Ornathia, the name that was a blow to the stomach, was their only memorial. Ornathia, the loss of everything.

The Bajorans couldn't commemorate it quickly enough. The first _Ornathia_-class prototypes sent Bajoran boots crunching down into the dusty soil of Cardassia Prime, after the First Minister and the kai had stood together in Ornathia Square and called for revenge. It was not enough that they had driven off the invasion of their planet, for their enemies still hungered for Bajor. An example had to be made. If they were seen as so simple, so weak that an army which collectively resembled nothing so much as a rabid, starving _hara_ cat could conquer them, then the strength of the Bajoran people must never again be in doubt. There would be no more threat from Cardassia.

They had never had another race under their heel before, only the lowest of their castes, but they took to it quickly. They hammered doggedly away at Cardassian atheism, reminding their beaten foes again and again that Bajor's strength was the strength of the Prophets, and Cardassia had sold its gods for a few mouthfuls of food and a chance to play at war.

On the planet itself, they found little of use; barren desert and overcrowded city offered them no useful resources. Instead, factories were appropriated to churn out military supplies, for the Bajoran Militia found itself needing more and more of them. Workers were acquired by the simple expedient of rounding up anyone who could function long enough to be worth the cost of their minimal food and medicine, and the streets of Cardassia Prime were quickly stripped almost as bare as the rest of the planet.

In the factories, Cardassians gained their first and most important lesson in the Bajoran language, roughly phaser-engraved high on the wall where all could see:

_Orbei'mek Elta'no Kateh'ran. _

_Hard Work Brings Rewards. _

Save for numbers and other important designations, it was all the Bajoran that most Cardassians could read, and all knew it by heart. It was the mantra of the _Ke'lora_, the laborers' caste, who had become the overseers, and it was their gift to their workers.

And there was a new caste, now, the _El'kejal, _to whom most of the new armaments were given. Though the Militia drew from all castes save the _Ih'mutta _(for to enlist those who touched the dead was sure to bring disaster), the _El'kejal_ were the best of the best, baptised in fire at Ornathia and crowned in glory. From them would spring a new generation of Bajorans, strong and fearless warriors, protectors of their people.

The Cardassians learned this _d'jarra _along with the rest, so that they might never give offence to their superiors or overstep their bounds, though their place was such that even the _Ih'mutta_ were entitled to spit on them. There was, perhaps, one consolation to it all - all Cardassians had been beaten down into equality. Orphans, who had perhaps suffered the least change in their lives, could no longer be reviled; it was they who knew how to make food and water stretch further, who could steal and only rarely be caught, who could keep the sick clinging to life with the very meanest of necessities. And there were very many orphans now.

Children as a whole had become all the more precious, for the instinct that had taken hold in the famine now strengthened its grip. Cardassia _had_ to survive, to endure through its descendants, even descendants who might never know what _Cardassia_ had truly meant.

When the Bajorans deduced the reason for the sudden, heated madness that brought work to a screeching halt, they did what they had learned to do best: create separation. Males and females were no longer quartered together, and adults were kept away from all young children, so as to have no temptations or reminders whatsoever. Of course, out of sight could never be out of mind, and the need became physical pain, constant and poorly concealed, and desperation followed it.

As a result, certain inventive punishments became commonplace. Cardassian virility was bizarrely amusing to the Bajorans, and those who went beyond the allotted times could expect at best a period of public display and taunting, with eligible mates paraded in front of them like meat dangled before a caged hound. At worst, they were kindly relieved of their urges, sometimes for days at a time. It was considered efficient as well as entertaining; any consequences merely replenished the workforce.

All of this could be avoided by medical sterilisation, offered freely by doctors and baited with extra rations. Even upon refusal, rumours had sprung up that all the food was adulterated now, dosed to lower fertility and even the imperative itself. They ate it anyway; it was that or starve.

Survival was all.

They worked hard, and survival was their reward.


	3. Part Three

_Part Three: 2348_

Nilima was giving birth in the storeroom. They'd shut the door on her, so the pants and groans of her labour wouldn't be a distraction. It was as good as a holding cell - or better, because at least in here it was dark.

Her friend knelt beside her, steadying her, keeping her slick thighs from sliding too far apart on the cold, smooth floor. For once she was grateful Ulal was here, timid, anxious Ulal, who - it was said - went willingly to bed with Bajoran officers, though Nilima suspected it was less out of cowardice than out of a hope that she could sate them enough to keep their attentions from others. It would have been pitiable, if Cardassians had ever been inclined to pity.

Either way, the fact was that Ulal had, somehow, come by the contents of a small field medical kit, including a few doses of painkillers. They weren't, of course, quite as effective as they could have hoped for, but if Cardassians and Bajorans were alike enough internally to bear healthy children, they could, with a few crucial exceptions, share medication as well.

So her mind was adrift in fog, and the sharp gettle-teeth of the pain gnawed rather than savaged her. Gettles... the sound of Ulal's voice stirred memories in her, and she reached out to them with clumsy eagerness, wanting an escape from the present more than anything.

As the famine tightened its grip on Cardassia Prime, the half-wild urban gettles ceased to be a nuisance. Instead they became competition for the scraps of food they scavenged, and, more often than not, they won. Eventually their victories emboldened them to attack the street denizens directly, picking off the weak and sick with a predator's finesse. For their newfound prey, grief slowly gave way to a dull, practical resignation. One less mouth to feed; one less illness to cure; one portion of suffering ended.

The old man had been sitting in the corner of the alley, head bowed, white hair falling in limp strands over his face. His shallow breathing, painful to hear, had drawn them to him. When Ulal had come over and touched his chin, the two girls had started back a little, seeing he was blind. Gently, Ulal had brushed his face with her fingers and told him not to be afraid, and Nilima, uneasy, had been about to pull her away when her friend had gasped out a shocked little cry.

"Nilima - his sun's eye -"

Nilima looked. In the middle of the old man's forehead, there was a vicious wound, halfway scabbed over and clearly, gruesomely infected. It was deep, too deep, and she knew Ulal was right. He could no longer even tell light from darkness, nor easily find somewhere warm to sleep.

"What _happened_?" quavered Ulal.

He shivered and stared at nothing somewhere beyond them, and would not speak.

"Probably a fight," Nilima said brusquely, taking the other girl's shoulder. "Let's go. His family couldn't help him, and neither can we." She didn't trust herself to say anything more. Then a growl sounded from nearby, and she tensed. "Ulal, we have to go."

"They can't have..."

The words came out strangely around the tightness in her throat. "They had to. Ulal, we are getting _out_ of here."

The first gettle stalked right by her, close enough to brush her leg. Ulal shrieked, but the animal paid no mind. Close behind came the rest of the pack, mercifully ignoring the two girls in favour of a much easier meal. Nilima knew the old man could hear their snarls, smell the stink of their breath, but he did not move.

Ulal cried most of the way back to the condemned military barracks they called home, and Nilima had nothing to tell her.

Strange, then, so strange that the sobbing girl in the alley was now the one urging her to be strong, as the numbness shrank away like water on hot sand and the pain came back with a vengeance. This time it consumed her, white-hot like thrown grenades, and she slammed the back of her head against the storeroom wall as she screamed.

"It's a male," said Ulal, after a while. She was trying very hard to be clinical, and failing. The newborn was fumbled into Nilima's limp arms. "Do - do you know where his father is?"

"Dekel? No..."

Ulal scrambled up as best she could after kneeling for so long, and wiped her hands roughly on her pants. "I'll find him. Dekel - you mean Dekel Ajith, don't you?" When Nilima murmured agreement, she forced out a weak little laugh. "I bet a quarter-ration of water it was Anpad from munitions. You never tell us _anything_."

Settling her child against her, Nilima let out a long, ragged breath. "I don't know if they'll come looking for me soon. I've no doubt used up my rest periods for the month in here."

"I heard our ancestors could run and fight only moments after they'd delivered..."

"Our ancestors laid _eggs_, Ulal."

"Not the later ones. But I'm sure the Bajorans wish we still did. You put eggs somewhere warm and safe, and they take care of themselves."

Nilima leaned back against the wall and shut her eyes. "Please go find Dekel." Feeling the baby's tiny, searching hands as Ulal's footsteps receded and the door opened and shut, she fumbled with her shirt so he could nurse. She'd heard Bajoran children screamed and howled as soon as they got their first breath of air into their lungs. How nice it must have been to live on a world where the unmistakable sound of something so small and helpless out in the open wouldn't bring death down upon you...

_Maybe it is like Ulal said. If our ancestors could survive monsoon storms and gettles with teeth the size of your hand... I can survive this. _

* * *

"Nilima." The soft, familiar voice tugged her gently out of strange and half-feverish dreams. "Nilima, wake up."

Her eyes flickered open. "Dekel...?"

"Of course." She felt his fingers brush her cheek, hard and callused and still warm from his work. The baby stirred against her chest and made a soft noise at the interruption, and Dekel, sounding awed, whispered, "Is that...?"

"Idiot," Nilima rasped fondly. "What did you think he was going to be?"

"He's going to be very lucky, if I can manage it. No - don't sit up. Here." He sat down beside her and took her free hand in his. "I didn't want to tell you before now, in case it fell through. The man who runs our refinery has got this business partner, I suppose you could say. She's _Va'telo_, and-"

"A... transport driver?" Dekel knew every nuance of the _D'jarra _by heart, but Nilima struggled with them even when not weary to the bone.

"Close. A pilot. She's running the best of our production to some group on some Bajoran moon. Don't ask me what they want it for, none of us know. We only found out this much because Gidon's people don't care who they gossip around, and, well - he doesn't want any other Bajorans getting involved, even his underlings. You know the man, you drop a laser spanner and he jumps like you've shot at him."

"Why are you telling me all this? And keep your voice down."

"Gidon and the pilot need people to move the cargo. People they know won't ask questions."

Nilima instinctively clutched the baby a little tighter to her; he squirmed in annoyance. "People they know won't be missed. Wouldn't we have everything to gain if we reported them?"

"No, you don't understand. We'll have so much more if we _don't!" _

"Dekel, they're _going to hear you!_"

He took a deep breath and finally lowered his voice, but his blue-grey eyes were still brilliant with excitement. "If we help them - if we do everything right - they'll give us some way to get to a starbase, or a spaceport. They don't _want _us coming back anywhere near Bajoran-controlled space, in case we report them, just like you said. The Federation will give us asylum."

Nilima shook her head. It was too good to be true. "Where will we go, then? Who would take us? We've no connections, no family, no skills anyone will want -"

Momentarily letting go of her hand, Dekel turned his own palm-up so she could see the burn scar across his wrist and palm. "Anyone making ships or weapons needs somebody to sort through scrap and give the replicators raw material. I've been doing nothing but for five years now. And you... you can turn your hand to anything. I'm sure of it."

His mate's lip twisted. "That's a sweet way of saying I'm right."

"That's not - Nilima, we can't let this slip away from us! It might be the only chance we'll ever get."

"And how do you know that chance won't end with us all thrown out an airlock?"

For a long moment, Dekel was silent, looking at her and their child. "I don't."


End file.
